Eventually Hell - Dog Tags
by Viskey HeroMouse
Summary: This is a story in four parts, the first, Dog Tags has the Team in the POW-camp and sees them finally escape, though not according to Hannibal's plan. Contains rape (though not graphic), violence and a lot of pain for Face, and anguish for the others
1. Chapter 1

Face looked up. He was alone. At last.

Sometimes he felt like they were shift-working on him. It could happen just any time of the day; or night. And it did happen just any time, day or night. And when it happened, it lasted for hours, at least that's how it felt.

Towards the end of these "dates", as they called it, he was numb, which was a good thing. But each time, when he thought they could rape him for days on end now and he wouldn't even notice, they stopped. They gave him time to recover; time to regain his senses. God knows, how they always knew, when to stop. But if God knew... Face drew a cross in the dirt, stared at it for a moment, then wiped it out. He had ceased to be a good Christian. Good Christians never despair.

Whatever made him think of the team just then he didn't know. He rarely thought of them anymore, because it simply served no purpose. For all he knew, they could all be dead and rotting by now. Or, of course, they could be in some other little dark cell, just like the one he was in. But that possibility was a slim one in comparison. Rotting woud be the better choice anyway.

The door was unbolted.

'Oh no,' Face thought. 'Not now, please, no... not now.'

And he was actually lucky this time. They were not coming for another of their sick "dates", but just to feed him. A dirty dish and a mug of water pushed in on a rusty tray, then the door was bolted again.

In the dim light that fell through the cracks in the door Face crawled over to the food. He felt uneasy, drinking the water. It was dirty and every now and then it had given him diarrhoea. But he had little choice in the matter, his body demanded fluids.

As for the food... Slop, just as usual. But when you're fed only every third or fourth day, you tend to eat just about anything. Face quickly poured the water and devoured the slop, before they might get the idea to take it away from him – which had happened, as a matter of fact. Since then all the food he got he swallowed in practically one go. Not the best for the digestion - neither the food itself nor the way of eating it - but still better than air.

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_"Cho" - I hope - means "this". I had to rely on online-translators, and well ... they're not exactly known for accuracy._

* * *

Murdock tugged his clothes. He was bored. The camp could be incredibly boring. It could be incredibly cruel too, no doubt about that. But mostly it was boring. And since they'd taken Face... Murdock sighed dejectedly. Face. He remembered the day. It was about two or three months ago now...

* * *

... they've been in the camp for only a few days now, hardly a week, and Hannibal was working on an escape-plan. Actually, he had finished working on it. He had already shared it with them, in pieces, never more than a sentence at a time.

Basically, they were waiting for new moon, so it would be dark. Darkness has always been a friend to those who wantd to sneak away. And surely there were a lot of other factors to be considered as well, not just the guards, but the other POWs, and... and a lot of other stuff Murdock couldn't even begin to imagine. But he was sure that Hannibal had them all straightened up in his mind, and checked off.

"Tonight," Hannibal said in his most casual, by-the-by voice. Just this one, single word. But more was not necessary, because they were a team, tuned in to each other. And what else, really, could he mean?

New moon was still three days away, but the sky was overcast, and it did not look like the clouds were going to blow away anytime soon. Bad weather could be as favourable to their plan as new moon, if not more so. Darkness from an absent moon might not make the guards less diligent in their duties, but bad weather just might.

The plan was to break out, get backup, and then free the camp.

Murdock has had reservations in the beginning. It didn't seem right, leaving them all behind, while saving his own hide. But Hannibal had quickly convinced him: If they wanted to help their fellow POWs, they couldn't do it from inside a bamboo-cage. And they couldn't take everyone with them, because half the boys were in no condition to walk anywhere. They would wind up back where they started before morning. So the smaller their number, the safer. Barring an actual head-count, Charlie might not even notice they've gone. It still did not sit well with him, leaving, but all things considered it was the option with the best chances of success.

The day passed uneventfully. Agonizingly slowly the daylight dimmed.

"How much longer?" Face asked.

Hannibal looked meaningfully up at the sky in response.

For a few minutes that was it, silence in the cage. Until, once again, Face asked: "How much longer?"

"Still way too bright," Hannibal answered.

"Keep your cool, buddy," BA added.

"Can't help it, I'm itching," Face apologized, his eyes travelling up to the grey clouds.

There was silence again for another few minutes, interrupted by commotion starting at the end of the line of cages they were kept in. Like animals at a zoo.

Damn it, but he was not an animal! They'd probably be treated better if they were.

"Colonel?" Face's voice was carved with worry now, and his eyes darted between the still not dark enough grey sky and the end of the line.

Murdock took a closer look: a group of guards and the commander of the camp were there, the commander pointing inside the cage in front of him. Immediately one guard opened it, two others went inside, grabbed one of the sPOWs and dragged him outside.

The poor boy screamed in protest and fear.

Murdock wanted to scream too. Or do something else, anything to pull the attention away from that poor guy who's life was very likely to be ended within the next ten minutes or so. He could feel Hannibal next to him fidget with the same compulsion. It was hard, just standing by.

But tonight, of all nights, they could not afford to stand out and call attention. If their plan was to work they had to remain as unobtrusive as ever possible.

The commander moved on to the next cage, looked inside, moved on. He pointed at two guys in the third cage.

"They're selecting us out," BA stated the painfully obvious in a horrified whisper.

Murdock allowed himself a glance over at him, then at Hannibal. There was fear on Hannibal's Face. What the hell? Hannibal didn't do fear, never.

Why? What did he see that Murdock didn't?

Murdock lost track of the events for a bit, trying to figure out what it was that managed to strike fear into Hannibal's heart.

The commander reached the adjecent cage now, stretched his arm out to point inside and said: "Cho."

The unfortunate soldier in the other cage was being dragged out, yelling for mercy, trying to fight free, but to no avail.

The commander already moved on, stopping in front of their cage now. He let his eyes travel over the group of soldiers in here. A select few at the front of the cage - those with still some fight left in their guts, giving a demonstration of silent defiance. The rest huddled together at the back, trying to hide behind each other. The broken ones.

Why was Face with those? He was not broken, he was a fighter, why...

The commander stretched out his arm, pointed inside. "Cho."

Murdock, Hannibal and BA followed the line the man's arm formed.

The commander was pointing at Face.

No!

Hannibal shook his head, BA took one tiny half-step forward, Murdock sucked in a shocked breath, finally realizing what Face must have seen all along, right from the start, and what had Hannibal so afraid. All the guys taken were of the same type: young, lithe and unmistakably American.

Face's eyes jumped from one to the other. Panic at first, then resolve, when he saw Hannibal starting to move, starting to do something stupid.

"Don't," his eyes said, shouted. "It'll only get you into trouble, that's all. Leave it. Don't."

Unbelievably, Hannibal listened. He shook his head, but his feet remained firmly planted to the ground, his hands at his sides.

The door was unlocked. Two Vietcong guards came inside, grabbed Face, who was pressing himself hard against the bamboo-bars of the cage. He was not an idiot, he knew there was big trouble heading his way. Whatever Charlie had planned, it was no good.

Four strong arms grabbed him.

Face tried to escape them, tried to fight them, when escaping didn't work, tried to hold on to the bamboo-bars, when fighting didn't work. But he kept quiet, all the while, didn't say a word. His breath and the occasional strained grunt the only sounds he made.

"Face..." Hannibal's whisper wasn't too loud, but in the eerie silence that had fallen, everybody heard it. Face turned to look at him. Even now trying to communicate; now, as the fear of what might come, threatened to overpower him. "Shut up!" He silently shouted at Hannibal. And one last glance at Murdock: "Make sure he shuts up!" Then he was dragged away, out of the cage, which was locked again.

Two other Vietcong took care of Face at that point. One on his left and one on his right, they guarded him across the dirty yard toward the wooden barracks that were there. He disappeared from their view, walking straight and seemingly unimpressed by it all.

* * *

Murdock sighed again. They had postponed their escape after that. "Either all of us or none of us," Hannibal had said. And BA had nodded, agreeing fully, finding the thought dreadful to leave one of his friends behind.

Murdock, once convinced of the original plan, had had his doubts, though. It was well possible that they'd killed Face, painful as the mere idea of it was. If so, were they to wait here forever? If not, wasn't it even more pressing that they escaped now, saving Face?

But Hannibal had decided differently.

If Murdock thought he had a chance all on his own, he would have broken out all on his own. But he hadn't seen that working out. So he'd stayed.

And now, they were all too starved to try an earnest escape. And Face **was** dead. For Murdock Face had been the main reason for breaking out; avoiding whatever pains there were for Face, keeping him safe, keeping him out of danger, out of the line of fire. – Funny, how important he'd suddenly been. When they had taken him, he had wanted to go, go and get help to **save** **Face** – and be it only his body to bury. The other captives... Murdock felt sorry for them, but not more than for himself. So, let somebody else break out and get rescue. His reason for escape had died.

Some of the boys had returned the next day. Some had returned during the following two weeks. But they had all returned. All, except two. One of which was Face and the other one a boy Murdock hadn't really known. But when he remembered him, he had looked a little like Face: tall, delicate shape, even features, big bright eyes and blond. Murdock sighed a third time.

"What's up?" Hannibal asked. He still felt responsible. He still worried about them. All of them. He was probably the highest ranking POW in this camp, even if his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel had come through only two days before their capture and it still said "MAJ." on his uniform.

"What's up?" Murdock asked back acidly. "Nothing's up. - - - I was thinking of Face."

Hannibal nodded detectedly and dropped his head with a sigh of his own.

"I hope they did it fast and clean," Murdock murmured.

"Me too." But they both knew, Charlie didn't kill his prisoners like that. Charlie had turned killing into entertainment.

* * *

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

_Having skipped ahead to chapter 5 with my proof-reading, I decided to up the Rating to M. That is one heavy chapter, but (I seem to remember) that's about as bad as it gets. It goes uphill from there then._

* * *

Face had rolled up in one corner of his cell. He did his best to keep himself warm, which, without clothes, culd be difficult. All he had was a small, stinky piece of cloth that was full of vermin. But thanks to exhaustion he fell asleep only a few minutes later. In his sleep his brain ran amok. He dreamt of all different sorts of violence he was doing to Charlie in revenge. And in his dream he was strong enough to actually do it all.

"Up!"

The rag was snapped away from him. Face woke immediatley. Another date, he thought warily. But no. The two Vietcong just looked down at him for a minute. Then one drew his gun.

"Ohmygodno..." Face thought desperately. Fucked up as his life was at the time, he didn't want to die.

The two soldiers laughed.

"Don't worry, you not die," said the one with the gun. "We are enjoy you still." Silly enough, Face corrected the sentences in his mind, but he was aware enough not to speak up.

"I want this," said the other one and pointed at Face's dog-tags. Face looked up at him, not comprehending. What did he want those for?

"GIVE IT!"

Face hurried to take his dog-tags off. And he felt like he was giving away his life, his identity, his entire being. If they killed him now, nobody would know it was him should they find his body. – And they would kill him eventually.

Face watched them leave his cell, leave with his tags. He saw the door close, heard the bolt being put back into place. He felt tears rising, but fought them down. He wouldn't cry.

* * *

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

"You! Major!"

Hannibal sat up and looked the Cong-officer right in the eye. They say, poor men can't afford pride even though it doesn't cost anything. Well, Hannibal thought the saying was not quite right. When you have literally nothing left but your life, pride is the only thing you could and should afford.

"Here, I think, you want this." The officer held out his hand, clenched into a fist. "You collect this, I hear." And with a derisive smile he opened his fist. Something silver fell into the dirt. The officer stepped back and watched, as Hannibal picked it up.

Dog-tags.

One last grin and the officer turned to leave. Hannibal wiped over the tags. He didn't have to read the number embossed. He knew, they were Face's. So now he was dead.

Murdock had come over and now looked at him with his big puppy-eyes. He knew, just like Hannibal, but refused to believe. Hannibal wanted to console him, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He needed someone to console himself. It was his fault. He should have listened to Murdock. Break out with only two of his three men and return to free the third along with the rest of the POWs. But now it was too late.

"Damn," was all he managed to say.

* * *

Murdock patted Hannibal on the shoulder, trying to comfort him. But it was only mechanical. He felt like he was separated from the whole scene. – Once again. He'd experienced this strange... this strange **ness** a few times now. Usually when he was supposed to be stressed. So, it was only sort of a stress-reaction, he tried to persuade himself. It had started even before the camp, but here it had become threateningly worse. He wasn't exactly "there" for most of the times.

Whatever it was, Murdock **knew** , he should feel sad now – or angry, or whatever else. The only problem was: he didn't; he didn't feel anything. He **knew** he should pity Hannibal, who reproached himself for the death of Face. He **knew** , he should **miss** Face. – He did none of that. He registered facts and that was that. He reached out to touch the tags Hannibal held in his fingers, so tight, they were all white. Maybe that helped him back to reality. Cold metal under his fingertips. Cold metal. But not more.

* * *

Hannibal let Murdock touch the tags, although he'd rather not have **anybody** touch them. He wanted to keep them exclusively to himself. It felt like Face being taken away from him a second time, and Hannibal couldn't bear that. It was his fault, all but his fault.

Murdock needed to say good-bye, though. For the time being Hannibal still knew that. For the time being he could act accordingly, put his futile and selfish feelings aside. So he let Murdock touch the tags and when Murdock withdrew his hand again, Hannibal closed his fingers all around them and lifted the fist to his lips. "So sorry, Face, my boy, so sorry," he whispered. Cold metal cut the palm of his hand.

* * *

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_Well, and here's the "dark chapter" ... the one which makes this an M-rated story. Too cautious perhaps, but better safe than sorry._

* * *

Face lay on the ground, dozing. Being raped was more demanding, physically, than one might think. Even when you didn't struggle and fight. But most likely it wasn't just that this time.

He had once again tried to catch some sleep. Sleep was the only good thing he had left, after all. But he had merely bedded his head on his arm, when the door had been unbolted. 'This is it now," he'd thought, sending a short, last prayer up to God. Since they'd taken his tags some weeks ago, he did that everytime they came into his little cell.

But once again, they had not killed him. They had done something so much worse. Something so infinitely, terribly worse.

Or tried to, anyway.

* * *

"Here, company for you." A young Vietnamese woman, hardly a woman yet, was pushed into his cell.

Face looked at her with his eyes wide open. 'What had **she** done?' he wondered. 'And why are they throwing her into my cell?' He got that second question answered sooner than he'd wished.

"Rape her."

"What?!" Face was shocked. They couldn't be serious. Or could they?

"Rape her," the man repeated. "Now, do it!"

Face still didn't react. He just stared up at that man. He couldn't quite distinguish him standing against the open door and his eyes used to dim twilight at the best.

"Do it, or you suffer." The voice ordered coldly, not even with a threatening undertone. And therefore it was even more threatening.

"I... I can't."

"It is your decision. Rape her or suffer."

Face had an idea, what "suffer" meant in this instance, but still couldn't do it. For all the might in the world, he couldn't sink that deep, not even to save his life, better die than that. Probably not even to save her life. He couldn't, he just couldn't. This was not him.

The man bent down to the girl and tore her clothes off. With an inviting gesture he repeated his order once more.

"I just can't," Face said again, plainly. Thinking that rape was their dirty business, not his. And should he have wavered in his decision, one look into her frightened, black eyes had been enough to stable him. Frightened was hardly the expression, though. Terrified hit it better. "I can't."

The man in the doorway shouted orders at somebody waiting outside. The girl was dragged away from him. And even though she had to know that she'd be raped anyway, and probably killed afterwards or during the ordeal, a glimpse of gratitude found its way through her terror as she looked at Face. That warmed him. That helped him pass the next thirty minutes when they were beating the living daylights out of him.

"Maybe you do better with a boy?" the man wondered, looking down at Face, battered and half unconscious on the floor, bleeding from several cuts.

And Face couldn't believe, didn't want to believe, that they'd do it now. But he was hauled up, tied to that iron ring that was fixed to the wall. And then they were coming for him. Shift-working. He fell unconscious once or twice, but was wakened again by a swell of icy-cold water.

Until he went numb.

Until he didn't care anymore.

Until –

* * *

Only then they had cut him loose and let him drop to the floor, bolting the door behind them, as they left, probably to dinner or something.

Face woke from a troubled, not restful sleep to rumbling in his bowels. 'Oh, nice, the water – again,' he thought. He crawled over to the distant corner – which was only a couple of feet away, anyway – that served as his toilet. Walking was out of the question, and even crawling was a haul and took him hours.

He didn't register there was blood coming.

* * *

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Against all common sense Hannibal had started planning again. In the back of his mind he knew, of course, that they had no chance. But at least it kept his mind moving, and that's why he really did it. Otherwise the thought of Face would have overwhelmed him. He was responsible for his death. He should not have waited for new moon or bad weather, so they wouldn't be spotted so easily in the moonlight. They might have made it anyway. And while that was forgivable, the other mistake he'd made was not: When they had taken Face, he should have listened to Murdock. Two mistakes. Two deadly mistakes.

He was so occupied with his futile planning, that he needed a time to realise what was happening. The sounds in the camp were not the usual ones. All the Charlies were agitated and alarmed. Murdock came over to him and looked at him with regained hope, at pains to hide it anyway. "They're coming," he said, "our boys, right?" As Hannibal didn't answer: "They're coming to get us, right?"

Hannibal stared on for a moment. Then he remembered that he was the Major - no, actually he was a Colonel, still hadn't quite got used to his new rank. - How could he, really, when everyone still called him "Major"? No point in pointing out the truth to Charlie...

So he was a Colonel, and everyone around here relied on him, at the very least Murdock did. BA... there was no telling, what he expected. He had shut himself off. Biding his time, maybe, until it was safe to live again. Not half bad that strategy, not half bad.

"Hannibal?" Murdock's eyes shone darkly.

Hannibal nodded. At least it seemed as if they were coming. He cast a look over at BA. He was silent. Has been ever since they'd taken Face. The voting whether they should or should not break out without Face was about the last time he'd spoken. It hurt Hannibal to see BA like that.

Hannibal turned his attention to Charlie outside their cages. They were indeed behaving very strangely.

Early in the afternoon, about an hour after Murdock's tentatively hopeful question, choppers were audible in the distance. A few minutes later they came flying over the camp, firing at the barracks. Several VC dropped dead. And even those that weren't dead, were left behind to die by their comrades, who fled the scene in apparent panic.

As he saw the first American soldiers step out of the green, Murdock broke into a hysterical cry of triumph, even as he threw himself to the ground to dodge. Several of his friends and comrades did the same and some even applauded. The battle was violent and short. However, the cages that held them all were to be opened only an hour later. But nobody worried about it. Charlie was being defeated, that was all that counted. They would be taken care of. They would be free. Everything would work out just fine for them.

Hannibal was glad that this torture was coming to an end, although he couldn't help thinking of Face. He felt for Face's dog-tags, which he'd stored in his pocket. They should be warm, warmed up by his body-heat. But they were cold. Cold metal, icy cold.

* * *

Face didn't hear or see any of that.

He lay on the ground, blood coming from his backside as well as from his mouth, when he was throwing up, which he did quite often. – Not that **he** cared, he was practically unconscious, unable to determine what was real and what was but imagination. He moved uncoordinated, reacting only to the immediate needs of his agonized body. He heard the cracking of the door, saw the flash of bright sunlight flowing in, but was convinced it was only an echo in his head; an echo with its own light-show.

But when a pair of hands touched his upper arm, it came to him that it might be real after all. He reacted in the way he'd learned over the past few weeks – or was it months? He tried to crawl away from these hands, tried to escape. He couldn't stand another rape just now, not now, maybe tomorrow, but not now. It'd kill him. He was almost positive of that. – And he **still** didn't want to die.

"No, no," he whimpered, trying to fight his torturer. His movements were as uncoordinated as they had been for approximately the last twelve hours. His vision was a blur, but his hearing was still ok: "Don't worry, chap, we're gettin' you some help," was the unexpected reply to his weak protest. Face recognized the language to be genuine American. Not that colourful, sing-sang English Charlie spoke. He lifted his eyes but saw only a dull silhouette against the bright sun, coming through the doorway. So, was he dreaming, fantasising? Was it real? Or was he snapping at last? Any further consideration was put to an end, as he had to throw up; it was blood he threw up.

* * *

"DOC!" Sergeant Kellerman cried out. Part of him was relieved. He didn't want to shoot anybody, be it Vietnamese or any other nationality. This half dead man was his excuse to stop shooting. Kellerman lifted him up.

* * *

TBC

 _Not quite the resue you had expected, I presume ..._ :)


	7. Chapter 7

Murdock looked around, watched with cool interest how the fight went on. Once again he felt separated from the scene and even himself. It was weird for a stress reaction to kick in at a time like this. Surely there was nothing to be stressed about being liberated.

And yet.

He felt as if he were on the phone, long distance call, getting – though precise – only second hand information.

And then he saw Face.

He shook his head. He must be wrong, because Face was long dead! But there he was, undoubtedly, carried by some of their rescuers. And though he didn't look at all well, he was unquestionably alive, one arm reaching out into nothingness. Murdock pressed his eyes shut for a second or two, and when he looked again, there was no sight of Face. Good. Or rather not good. It proved, that Face was indeed dead and gone, and that he started hallucinating for real. He had noticed quite some changes with his perception. Not only did he feel cut off from reality most of the time. It almost seemed as if he was making up new realities instead. He was seeing and hearing things, nobody else heard or saw, in favour of not seeing and hearing what everybody else was experiencing. He dreaded reacting by now, for he was never sure what he would be reacting to: reality or just his overactive mind.

"You ok?" asked a lieutenant, as he broke off the padlock on the cage. A nod and a muttered yes here and there were his only answer. Hannibal summoned the remains of his strength and cleared his throat. "Good to see you, Lieutenant. I'm Ma- ... Colonel Smith."

The lieutenant saluted haphazardly, then halted mid-move. "Major Hannibal?" he asked carefully.

"Well, that would be Colonel Hannibal for a few months now, but... yeah."

The lieutenant saluted again, more accurately this time. "I'm honoured, Sir."

"The honour is all mine, Lieutenant, believe me. Now, is everything under control here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good job, Lieutenant, very good job. Where are the medics? As you can see, we have a number of men here who need attention."

"They're standing by at a safe perimeter. Wouldn't do to lose them."

"Good thinking." Hannibal looked around. "Call them in. Should be safe now."

The lieutenant nodded, saluted third time and then turned, shouting for a radio.

Hannibal stood for another second, before he leaned back against the bamboo-bars with an exhausted sigh.

Murdock felt with him. He felt rather exhausted himself. And maybe, hopefully, a little medial attention would put his brain back in order.

* * *

Kellerman met the medics at their waiting position.

"Sergeant! Why..." The doc didn't talk on. He saw why the sergeant wasn't fighting with the others. "Put him down here," he ordered instead.

Kellerman obeyed and gently laid that man down. "Will he make it?"

"How shall I know? I've to take a look at him first. – Most probably, no." The doc turned his attention to the naked, dirt- and blood-covered man in front of him. He was emaciated, but no surprise there. It was also, usually, not much of a problem. All you had to do was feed the guys well and regularly. But that might be a problem with this one, because he was spitting blood.

"Where're you hit?" A concerned, well-meaning medic stepped up to Kellerman, tools and bandages at the ready.

"No," Kellerman answered, still a little spooked. "No, it's not mine, it's his, not mine. I'm ok." His eyes never left the young man he had maybe saved, but most probably not. "I'm ok."

Then he returned to the camp.

* * *

Face missed the strong arms that had held him close and carried him. He missed the voice that had spoken to him occasionally. Stupid little things like: "Don't give up, now, buddy." As if that were in his power. Just a few encouraging words now and then. The man had smelled of sweat, but hey, they all did! Other than that, it had been the most positive experience in his life for months.

Other arms took care of him now. Other genuine American words were addressed at him. "What's your name, son?" he was asked. Face frowned. Why did they want his name?

"Guess I need attention," he said instead, his voice raspy, fading. How weird to be in a position to voice his needs, to be in a position where he could actually expect those needs to be met.

"We're gonna do our best."

"I'm cold."

"Blanket! Somebody get me a blanket, and pronto! – You'll be warm soon. – Call one of the choppers down! We can't lose any more time with this one. High fever, lost blood and still losing it. He needs an infusion, or he'll be pushing up the daisies! - Don't worry, pal, we'll get you fixed up."

Face couldn't help giggling. Did the medic think he was deaf? Or dumb? Telling him not to worry, right after forecasting daisies in his immediate future... The giggle turned into a cough which produced more blood. 'Well, rather the daisies then,' Face thought to himself. And suddenly he urged to tell his name, but there wasn't anyone there anymore to tell it to. "Peck," he whispered despite of it, "Peck, that's my name. Templeton Peck, Lieutenant. Peck, hear me? Write it down... Peck." He faded mumbling his name over and over again.

* * *

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Hannibal ran his hands over his uniform-jacket. It was clean. How good to wear clean clothes. He let his tongue run around his mouth. The last remainders of the recent meal still stimulating his sense of taste. How good to just eat when you're hungry, or when you simply feel like it. He sighed contentedly. Little amenities, and yet they could make life so good.

But then he slipped his hands into his pockets, his fingers automatically searching for the small piece of metal and the chain. Nothing.

Face's dog-tags, they were still in his old uniform. Hannibal rushed to get it.

"Colonel!" The private who was taking care of the old uniforms saluted negligently.

"You found dog-tags?" Hannibal asked, forcing himself to patience.

"No, sir."

"Help me search, then." Hannibal grabbed for the first pair of pants and slipped his hand into the right-hand pocket. Nothing. "Face, Face, Face," it chanted in his mind. He had to find all that was left of Face.

After five minutes of frantic searching the private pulled the tags out of a pocket. "You looking for these?" he asked tentatively.

Hannibal snatched the chain out of his hand. "Yes, these are the ones. Thank you private. And sorry for the mess." Hannibal motioned to the untidy heap of uniforms on the floor.

"No problem, sir. – Was... was he... He was a good friend?"

Hannibal fought down a rush of anger, 'none of your business!' he thought, but then looked up at the young private with sad eyes. He was only being sympathetic. "Yes," he answered, "very, very good." Then he turned away, as tears gathered in his eyes.

"Sorry for your loss," the private said earnestly. Hannibal nodded in response.

Reluctantly he moved over to the headquarters. He had to inform the army about Face's death. He was sure neither BA nor Murdock had done it. He was the team leader, not them. This was his job. A few men stood there, all feeling the same reluctance to report the death of a friend. Hannibal could read it in their eyes. He straightened up, which was still demanding and unaccustomed after almost five months in cages that were too low to stand up in.

"Colonel?" The officer in charge of the registrations asked casually, trying for sympathy in his voice but failing.

"I want to report the loss of one of my men," Hannibal answered in his coldest voice. All emotion cut out for the moment, he couldn't bear it.

"Name, rank?"

"Templeton Peck, first lieutenant."

"Thanks for reporting, sir. We'll contact his family."

"He didn't have a family!" Hannibal snapped unjustly. How should that poor officer know, after all? "We were his family." Yeah, and we let him down, let him die, didn't we, Colonel? Well, not we did, you did, isn't that so? Hannibal briskly turned away, trying to ignore that voice in his head. He was responsible for so many deaths, true. But none cut even half as deep as this one, not even all of them summed up. Those other deaths... they were war. This one death was failure.

* * *

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Face half woke up. He realised whiteness. So, that's what heaven looked like. A place made of glistening white. – But would it really stink like that in heaven? Like of sickness and death? Maybe this was not heaven, after all, but purgatory. It wasn't hell, that much he was sure of. He hadn't been that a bad person.

"Hello there, awake at last?" A friendly female voice asked.

"Wake?"

"You've been out for quite some time. You feelin' better?" that voice asked on.

"Better?" he echoed.

There was no more conversation after that, which Face was thankful for, because conversation obviously required parts of his faculties he presently had no access to.

Instead there was a soft touch to his brow, something cool. It felt wonderful. Maybe heaven after all, too nice for... but wait. He seemed to remember being rescued or something. Genuine, sympathetic American voices, talking to him about... daisies.

The idea of a smile fell upon his face.

"What's your name, soldier?" The voice asked.

"Name?" He felt stupid for just echoing words back at her, but surely, the heavenly creatures had to know who he was? So why was she asking?

The smile broadened. Maybe he was not dead after all. Maybe the foggy memories of a rescue, floating through the jungle on somebody's strong, confident arms, were actual memories, not just wishful thinking. He liked that thought. "Face." - Hey, good! So there was more than echoes left in him!

"No, no, your _..."_ But the voice drowned out.

Floating away...

* * *

Rosanna saw she was losing him to unconsciousness.

Damn, so close to finding out who he was. With his dog-tags missing, that was still a mystery. For all they knew he could be just anyone, he could be not even in the Army, he might be a reporter. Or not even American, although that was rather unlikely.

Not that it made much difference to her. Anyone suffering in a Viet Cong death camp deserved her best care.

But still, it would be good to know who he was. Just in case.

Because as it was, he was still closer to death than life. All the blood they were infusing him, he had long refused to keep it. It had taken them quite a while to find all the leaks and tamp them.

But now, he seemed to be fixed at last. At any rate, it's been almost a day since he'd last vomited blood, and even longer since there had been red stains on the bedsheets.

"Face," that's what he'd said. Damn. Was he so vain that he cared more about how he looked than about how he was doing?

She took a closer look. Once the swelling and discoloration were gone, and once his cheeks filled out a bit more, he probably was quite pretty.

So was he that vain? Knowing good-looking guys, he probably was.

But still, she couldn't quite believe it. There was something about him.

* * *

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Murdock patted his belly. He was full. God, was he full! He'd never realised before, how many different tastes there were in the world. How many different kinds of food. And he wanted to have them all. He was sick of starving. – Almost literally.

"Hey there, fool." BA sat down beside him. He was still incredibly silent and guarded. But since they were out of that hell-hole of a death camp, he was getting better. He's started speaking again if nothing else.

Murdock made a face. He didn't like BA calling him a fool; it was too close to the truth. Only reason he didn't plead for retirement was, he dreaded to confess it. Sooner or later, though, he would have to. He wasn't sure whether he should fly another chopper or plane in the state he was in.

"BA, what's up, Big Guy?" he asked, acting normal, though he felt drifting back into that other reality once again.

"Nothing's up. Just..." BA fell silent.

But it didn't matter. Murdock could easily read the words, he didn't say, off his face: He missed Face, missed him madly. Maybe more now that he was free, because now the guilt of having made it out alive added to the weight.

"I miss him too," Murdock offered. BA looked thankful for just a moment, before he hid it behind that grim looks of his. "We all miss him. Hannibal's half killing himself over it," Murdock added, to redirect BA's self-incrimination. Emotions made him so uneasy, feeling weak made him feel evenmore uneasy. He deserved a bit of control, or at least the illusion of it.

"Yeah, noticed that one." BA happily took the detour. "We gonna have to do some about that."

Murdock nodded. It may have been a detour, but it was also the truth. They did have to do something about that. Question was: What?

He felt pretty guilty himself. If he had insisted more that night... It was as much his fault as it was Hannibal's. Or god's, for that matter. He wondered, if BA felt alike, but didn't ask. That was no question one just asked BA.

* * *

Rosanna walked her rounds. It's been two days since that handsome soldier had been awake and aware – almost aware. And he definitely was pretty, even though the fading discoloration pointed out even more how thin he was.

Damn. Under different circumstances, a girl could seriously fall for a guy like him...

They did have him on intravenous nutrients, but that didn't help much in putting weight on his bones, intravenous nutrients rarely did. But they kept him from starving to death while he was unable to eat.

"Sister?"

Rosanna jumped, pulled from her thoughts. The young man was awake. "Hi there, soldier, anything I can do for you?"

"I'm cold. Can I have a blanket, please?" He looked up at her, but Rosanna had the feeling that he didn't really see her. She felt as if he was looking at someone else, though he focused on her. Still not really awake then, still caught in a fever-dream.

"Sure. But how about you tell me your name before I get you your blanket? How's that for a deal?"

He frowned. "You know who I am, I told you."

"No, actually you..."

"I'm so cold. Please, sister?"

"I'm not a sister", she corrected. "And please, tell me who you are."

His eyes glazed over. "Face", he mumbled, before he was out once again.

She sighed and went to get the man his extra blanket. She was a nurse, after all, and that was her job: taking care of her patients, not finding out their names.

"So, do we have a name at last?" Doctor Wissman approached her, as she picked up the blanket.

Rosanna shook her head. "Nope, and frankly, I don't care. He's hurt, he needs treatment. That doesn't change whether he's called Jimmy Peep or Donald Duck or even Bert the Turtle."

Wissman looked taken aback, but then nodded. "Right. But we must not forget: It may not make a difference to him or us. But his family..."

"Well, they'll have to live with it, won't they? Not that we have a choice, as long as he's fading out but never quite fading in." She gave him a pointed look, before her eyes softened. "He seems to think he's in some Christian institution, called me 'sister' as if I were a nun."

Wissman rubbed over his eyes tiredly. "Yeah well," he said. "We'll find out eventually. Looks like he's going to make it after all."

Rosanna sighed of relief. She had come to the same conclusion, but it was good to have a doctor confirm it. It would have been such a shame if that boy had died.

* * *

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: I'm not a pilot, I've hardly been a passener on planes. I'm distributing purely theoretical internet-knowlege here. Please don't nail me to any one bit. But if you know anything about flying, feel free to point out the errors and correct me. Actually, don't only feel free to, but feel asked to._ ;) _Thank you._

* * *

Murdock received his orders with mixed emotions. He was not sure whether he was still qualified to fly or not. But hey, he wouldn't find out if he didn't try, right? And he just yearned for the sky, wanted to be up there, surrounded by nothing but blue vastness.

Plus it was an easy mission, so there was not much to lose. Just pick up a few crates of canned food and bring them back here. Simple, non-demanding, not dangerous... not essential. Very probably on purpose to ease him back into the job.

Well, if they were making it so easy on him anyways, he might as well go for it and see how it went. And if anything were to go wrong... what had God created co-pilots for?

So here he was, clip-board with papers in one hand, the other hand on the control panel in front of him. He adjusted the headset, got his permission for take-off, ignored his co-pilot as best as he could, he was not needed in the picture until something - maybe - went wrong. Who was that guy anyway? Some baby Flyboy.

Murdock pressed buttons, flipped switches, like he had always done. He felt the plane vibrate with the roar of the engines coming to life. He released the breaks, started to roll. The runway could be smoother, but he loved every little bump that made the plane shake.

He went full throttle, once he was in the right position. Speeding down the runway, watching the end of the strip come close fast.

"What the fuck are you doing?!"

Murdock gave Baby-Flyboy a wide grin, pulled the yoke sharply, and at the very last second the plane soared up at a steep angle.

"You crazy shit! Don't ever..."

Murdock tuned him out. Too absorbed in what was happening, which was wonderful. He was there, whole and complete. Not fractured into a myriad of realities, but fully aware and alive in _this_ one, the _real_ one.

It was so overwhelmingly wonderful that he let it out in a long, loud: "Wooohooo!"

* * *

Hannibal watched Murdock take off. It seemed to be ok. He seemed to be ok.

Thank God.

In the camp, Hannibal had had the feeling that Murdock was slipping away, tipping over the edge. He'd always been excentric and a bit nutty, but in the camp... Well, who could blame him with everything that had happened in there?

BA had withdrawn too, and BA was one of the sanest, mentally healthiest guys Hannibal knew.

He had lost himself there for a while.

How could he go and judge Murdock?

He watched the plane until it disappeared behind the tree-line; and kept watching the empty patch of sky for a while after that, before he finally turned.

Murdock seemed to be doing ok.

He turned and almost bumped into BA.

"Hey, Colonel."

"BA."

"We goin' on mission?" BA asked matter-of-factly, although he had to know better.

Hannibal shook his head. No missions anymore, not as a team, anyway. There was no team anymore, thanks to him and his stupidity.

"Hannibal, stop that." BA's voice was determined, but also soft and tender, very unlike him.

"What?" Hannibal was taken by surprise.

"It's not your fault. Face... It's life, you know? That's what it is. Murdock... Honestly I wish he'd talk to you about it, but he's tumbling. So I have to do it. Looks like I'm the only one of us who's still got some wits in his brains."

Hannibal stood silent. It had been a while since he had been told off.

"Get it in your head, Hannibal: You're not more to blame for what happened to Face than me or Murdock."

"I should have listened to Murdock," Hannibal insisted.

"Yeah? Well, so should've I. I didn't, you didn't. And in the end, not even Murdock himself did."

"Right. You listened to me instead. But I'm the CO, I should think straight. I should be able to see consequences. I normally do."

"There was nothing that was normal about the situation, man. And you may be our CO, but you're also human, first of all. You're not a machine, you cannot always be right. You cannot always know everything. You are bound to err every once in a while – don't interrupt!"

Hannibal shut his mouth again without having produced a sound.

"You are our CO, alright. And you are a damned good one. The best I know."

"You don't know so many." He would not stand here and be outsmarted by BA.

"Enough to know what I'm talking about. And I may appear stupid some of the fellas 'round here, but I do know quality, when I see it. So stop kickin' yourself, man."

"I don't think you're stupid." Hannibal made it a point that BA unmistakably knew that about him.

BA wiped it away with the hint of a smile. "I know, man."

"But he..." Hannibal choked, then forced himself to speak on. "He looked so strong, when he left."

"That's 'cause he was strong."

"Yeah, guess so."

"He was, better believe it, no guessing required." BA gently patted Hannibal's shoulder. "Just forgive yourself, already. I'm sure, Face ain't mad at you up there." He pointed up at the sky.

Hannibal nodded, swallowing against the tight knot in his throat. He was pretty sure of that as well. The problem was he didn't think he should be forgiven. Stupidity was an unforgivable sin.

"Nobody but yourself blames you, Hannibal, remember that." BA patted him again, then left.

Hannibal swallowed, blinked away a stray tear.

* * *

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

_Sorry, this is a short one, but ... well, I hope you're pleased anyway._ ;)

* * *

Face woke up. And for the first time in weeks he was clear enough to realise the full extent of his condition. He was alive, but well, he had suspected that earlier on. He was freezing. That was strange, since he saw big fans on the ceiling, all revolving. And he saw patients in other beds who were sweating. Well, that could be due to fever. But the lightly dressed nurses and doctors indicated that it was just him. Plus, of course, there were not that many freezing cold places in Vietnam.

"Nurse?" his voice was croaking.

"Hey, there," a gravelly voice from his left answered.

Face turned around. The man he saw was a lot younger than his voice suggested. He had half his head bandaged, as well as one arm, but he didn't seem too broken up about it.

"Seems like you've finally woken up for real."

"Huh?"

His opposite grinned. "Oh, the whole ward started running bets on you. Some days you looked like you'd make it. Other days you looked good as gone. Guess, I've lost a twenty there."

"So sorry to disappoint," Face answered wryly.

"Sergeant Chris Baker, by the way. And who might you be, Faceman?"

Face blinked, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion.

"We started calling you that, 'cause every time someone asked for your name, you'd answer 'face'. "So worried 'bout your pretty face, chap?" Chris explained and laughed, a tad reproachfully perhaps, because his own face would never look the same.

Face shook his head. "No, couldn't care less..." That was a lie, but Chris didn't need to know that. "It's just that Faceman actually is my name, nickname." He had to laugh himself now, seeing the funnyn side of it. "It has shortened to just Face over time. So really, all you'd have needed to do was listen to me."

Chris didn't look convinced.

"Hey, it's true," Face insisted with a smile.

Chris held up his good arm in surrender. "So, what happened to you?" He then asked, being anyone's ide of insensitive.

Face's smile fell. Suddenly eveything came rushing back to him. It had been bliss, to just be awake and aware and comfortable... except for the cold. "Nurse!"

This time a nurse did answer his call. She came over with a profesionally friendly smile. "Hey, there. Finally among the living, Faceman?"

"It's Lieutenant Peck, actually."

Her face lit up with real delight. "So pleased to finally meet you, Lieutenant."

"Yeah, I was just wondering, could you get me another blanket? I'm cold." He looked down on himself and realized, he already had two blankets. "Oh."

"Never midn that", she quickly set his mind at ease. "If you're cold, we're gonna do something about it. How does a hot-water-bottle sound to your ears?"

Face nodded with a smile. "Wonderful."

The nurse left to get the bottle and Chris beside him started giggling once again.

"What?" Face asked annoyed.

"No, nothing. It's just... It's too bad, it ain't Rosanna. She's got a real crush on you. Always there to... well..." He broke into more laughter. "She'd probably use herself as the hot-water-bottle."

* * *

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Hannibal tried to tell himself that Face's death may have been his fault, but that it was a fault he just had had to make, that it had been written in his book right from the start. He only wondered what it was, that he was supposed to learn from it.

He was still a far cry from forgiving himself. Nevertheless, with this fatalistic approach he felt a bit better about the events, which cleared up his mind for other problems; like Murdock.

The man started to seriously worry him. Only yesterday he'd refused to listen to his name. "I'm Captain Skymaster!" he'd exclaimed, all agitated and indignant. BA, in response, had threatened to beat hiim up and make him Captain Groundmaster.

The banter and empty threats were nothing new, the two of them had been doing this dance pretty much from day one. Still... Murdock used to be more agreeable, more approachable.

Hannibal sighed. There was no way around it, he would have to go and talk to Murdock.

* * *

Murdock tinkered about with a model airplane he had started building. Not that he liked model airplanes much or had any idea what to do with it once it was finished, but it gave him something to do, took his mind off things.

"Captain, a word?" Hannibal stopped in front of the rickety table, Murdock was working on.

"Hannibal." Murdock put an extra layer of cheer to his voice, not a thick one, more of a slice than a layer. "Sure, what's up?"

Hannibal hesitated, which was one of those worrisome new traits of his.

"So, what's oppressing your fine heart?" Murdock prompted.

Hannibal sat down on one of the stools, that was thankfully considerably less rickety than the table. "I keep wondering... Murdock, you aren't really sane anymore, are you?"

Murdock felt his insides freeze. There it was, the dreaded word. He pulled back the cheery and pushed out some serious instead. And in between the two, there was a split second of blankness while he was busy crawling into himself.

"I still fly alright, Hannibal." It was true, but it was also bullshit. Because that's not what this talk was about. Or so he hoped.

"I know that. And _you_ know that that is not the point."

"I thought maybe BA complained, or something." Just buying time.

"Nobody complained."

Murdock just simply raised an eyebrow at Hannibal.

"Look, apart from the flying, and that's undisputed, you _aren't_ exactly sane anymore." This time it was not a question.

"Oh, come on, Colonel. If you were perfectly sane, you wouldn't be over here. And if you come here perfectly sane, you lose that within a week."

"Cut it out, Captain! This is serious, so stop throwing out platitudes."

Murdock forced his eyes to stay on Hannibal, not look away with guilt.

"Don't get me wrong, Captain, I'm not blaming you, and as long as you keep being the best pilot I've ever seen, I also don't give a damn."

Oh-kay, that was a surprise. All the angst and tension over when it came out, and Hannibal didn't care. Wait, that couldn't be true. That must be a ruse, or...

"Captain?" Hannibal's voice was soft but unrelenting.

"Well," Murdock said with a sigh. "I guess... I am... I feel..."

Hannibal nodded. "Just make it a little less obvious, okay? Captain Skymaster's probably ok, but that talking about Billy the Kid..."

"Dog," Murdock corrected, "it's Billy the Dog."

"Whatever."

"But..." Murdock broke off. How should he explain it? Captain Skymaster and Billy the Dog and all the other things he'd started to make up, he needed them. They kept him in touch with reality. When he himself was pulling back, rolling himself up in some dark, cosy corner of his existence, somebody had to keep contact with the world for him. And that would be Captain Skymaster, or whoever else came up. Most of these contact-holders listened to the name of Murdock, some even called themselves Murdock, but none of them was. They would just gather information, pass them on to the dozing real Murdock, so he got the picture, when he reappeared. It wasn't strictly a split personality, because Murdock was aware of these other personalities and could, to a certain degree, control them. But it followed the same concept. He knew all that, but he couldn't explain it to Hannibal like that. Because Hannibal might think that he could deal with a little crazy, but that was just it: It was not a little, it was a lot.

"Captain, can you tone it down?"

Murdock nodded, although he was not quite sure if he really could.

"Unless... Murdock, do you want to go home instead?"

"What? No!" Murdock sat up straight, looking accusingly at Hannibal. The idea alone! It had never even crossed his mind. "There is nothing for me back home," he answered. "This is all I have. Don't... don't take it away from me." It was painful to beg like this, but he couldn't risk Hannibal getting funny ideas. "If you really don't care that I'm... Just let it rest, ok? Let me stay."

Hannibal nodded after a moment's hesitation. "For the time being, Captain. As long as you're reliable. The first time something goes bust, because you don't do your bit - that's it. That's your express-ticket home. Understood?"

Murdock swallowed the lump in his throat. "Understood, Sir."

* * *

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

_Sorry, this took longer than expected, but I had to pretty much rewrite the entire bit, because Rosanna was terrible and the medicine was bad, and ... overall, it was just simply bad._

* * *

Face was nervous, which was foolish, because there was really nothing to be nervous about. All that was going to happen was the switch from artificial feeding to real food, and it wasn't like he hadn't had real food before. So, nothing to be nervous about, really, absolutely nothing.

And yet he was.

He should be glad to get rid of the infusion, because the solution had a tendency to burn, and the catheter in his neck* was becoming a serious nuisance very quickly. But there was something liberating in knowing those bags of liquid sustenance securely connected to his body.

Nevertheless, when the nurses, one of them being Rosanna, came to pull the catheter, he obediently held still and followed all their instructions. Because above all else, he wanted to be normal again, and eating was normal.

"There you are, that's better, isn't it?" Rosanna pressed a cotton-ball against the hole in his neck.

It really wasn't, because it burned, and she was so very close, almost pulling him into a bear-hug, or so it felt. "I tell you as soon as I don't need cotton to stop me from bleeding out," he said.

She grinned, even giggled a little. "Now, you rest a bit..."

"I haven't done anything but rest since I got here," Face protested.

She considered this, then nodded. "Alright. I'll get rid of this," she held up the cotton swab and discarded central catheter, "and when I return, we can do a bit of exercise."

"Sounds good."

She took her sweet time to return.

"Man, you've been played," Chris in the next bed pointed out gleefully. "By a nurse. Are you as sweet on her as she is on you? Or why did you let her..."

"Oh, cut it out," Face interrupted leniently. "What was I supposed to do?"

Chris shrugged. "I don't know."

"Hey, for all I know, you're not allowed to get up after having a central line pulled."**

Chris nodded contemplatively. "Yeah, ok, sounds plausible."

For a while they were silent. Chris reading his newspaper - it had been the same one since Face first bothered to check if the issue was new, it hadn't been - and Face idly looking around the ward.

Finally Rosanna returned. "You still interested in a little exercise?"

"You bet!" He had not given any thought about exercise so far, had not even thought about doing anything else but lying around in bed. Until she had advised him to rest. Now he wanted to do anything _but_ lying around.

"Right, we're going to start off easy."

Face let her help him sit up - although he had done that himself a few times. Then he swung his legs out of the bed, put his feet on the ground. It felt strange, hard.

Rosanna's one hand firmly wrapped around his upper arm - and what did it say about his physical state, that she could wrap it all the way around? - her other hand was gently, but firmly, laid against the middle of his back, as he stood up.

His vision went black with a few bright, dancing dots.

The hand on his back moved over to his side, holding him up.

He hated that he had to burden her with all his weight, but it was not to be helped.

"Don't worry, give your circulation a moment to get used to the vertical again."

Face blinked a couple of times, his vision cleared, and he straightened out his wobbly legs.

"That's the spirit," she commended, then started to lead him alongside the bed, around the foot end, up along the other end and there she sat him down again.

"Wait, that's it?" Face couldn't believe it.

She patted him on the shoulder, before she lifted his legs up and covered them. "Yes, for the moment, that's it. You still have to regain your strength. Speaking of which: hungry?"

"Actually, no."

She dismissed the answer with a conspiratorial spark in her eyes. "Never mind, appetite comes with eating. Be right back."

Face settled more comfortably against his pillows.

"Wonder how long she'll have you waiting this time," Chris commented.

"Not long." surely was in his best interest, and she had his best interest in mind.

True enough, Rosanna returned after only two minutes with a tray that held a tall glass of water and a bowl of clear soup. There were some finely cut vegetables and strings of boiled egg swimming in it, but mostly it was just clear soup.

Face picked up the spoon, dipped it in, raised it... it seemed weird, holding a spoon.

A waft of delicious smell hit him.

He quickly put the spoon into his lips, sipped the soup off it, let it swirl around in his mouth. It was the best damned thing he had ever eaten. He quickly filled his spoon again. He would have picked up the bowl and drank straight from that, but he strived for normalcy, and normal people used cutlery.

The first three of spoons he ate mainly for the explosion of taste, but then his hunger woke up and took over, and he wolfed the soup down, as much as one can wolf soup.

"Nurse!"

Rosanna came to his side. She wasn't exactly rushing, but she was definitely quite eager. Face remembered all of Chris' remarks about how she liked him.

"Any chance there's more of that?" He held up the bowl for clarification.

"See, I told you. But let's see how your stomach handles this portion first, ok? You haven't had anything to eat for quite a while"

"But I'm hungry." It sounded, to him at any rate, like the ultimate argument. If he was hungry, they were obligated to give him food. They were doctors and nurses. It was their duty to look after his needs. They had to...

"I can offer you a few crackers," she caved. "But only a few. You have to get used to solid food again, and that's best done slowly, in small portions."

Yes... He seemed to remember having heard something about that. KZ-inmates literally eating themselves to death after being liberated. Not that he was quite as bad off as those unlucky fellows. Among them, he probably still would be considered fat.

"Lieutenant?"

Right. Must not space out. "That would be great, thank you."

She nodded and already turned to leave.

"Uh, nurse?"

"Crackers, nothing else," she said, forestalling any other wish he could have.

"That's fine," he assured. "But... Is it at all possible for me to make a phone-call?"

She stopped in her tracks. "It's not customary..."

"Please, I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

"You wouldn't believe what some people deem to be important," she said, but Face could already see her melt, Chris seemed to be right on the spot with his remarks. But then she shook her head. "Sorry, I'll go and ask, but for the time being, no phone-calls. You try and rest. That's more important at the moment than any call you could make."

Face strongly disagreed with that, but effectively, there was nothing he could do about it. He was in no condition to fight anyone for anything just yet.

* * *

TBC

* _Artificial feeding is done through a central catheter, which often goes in through the jugular vein in the neck, where it is sewn into place. Under the collarbone would be another spot, but I figured that with Face being life-threateningly underweight, the jugular vein would be the more accessible spot. -_

 _**I'm not sure about that either, but it feels like a bad idea to me._

 _I'm not a doc, but I'm not half bad at reading medical texts._ ;) _Still, I don't claim medical accuracy on any of this._


	15. Chapter 15

"HANNIBAL!" BA came rushing into Hannibal's office.

"BA, what's up?" Hannibal asked innocently, although he was pretty sure he knew: Murdock was up.

"It's Murdock! Hannibal, ya know, I'm not the complaining kind o' guy but, Hannibal, I have to complain about Murdock. We've been loading the plane, y'know? And suddenly he's pushed back one of the trunks, telling me I can't put it there. It's 'cause Billy was sitting there. BILLY!" BA angrily punched air.

Oh dear. Seemed like he would have to have the sanity-talk with Murdock once more. "I'll take care of it." Hannibal assured, got up and walked over to the plane, where Murdock was rearranging the load.

"Captain!"

"Yep, Colonel?" Murdock looked up from his work.

"Murdock, BA has come to see me."

Murdock understood at once and dropped his eyes guiltily down to the trunks.

"Now, didn't we have an agreement?"

Murdock didn't react.

"I told you to reduce it, right?"

Murdock nodded.

"I asked you to make it less obvious, right?"

Again Murdock nodded.

"Now, Billy's your dog?"

Murdock nodded a third time.

"So why don't you just tell your dog to get out of the way? That's what you do with dogs." Hannibal paused. "Business comes first, Captain, copy that. Business comes _always_ first. Nobody cares what you do in your spare time, but business _does come first_." Hannibal said it a third time. He needed to make sure Murdock got it.

Murdock nodded yet again.

"I meant what I said: If you screw up, if even the easiest mission goes wrong, because you're not up to the task, it's bye-bye."

Murdock stood there, taking the sermon, and his only reaction was a rows of nods. It started to piss Hannibal off, but he reigned his anger in. This was not the time. "Whenever you like, Murdock," he said softly, taking a stepp closer to him. "But not on duty." He laid his hand on Murdock's shoulder, squeezed it gently. "We must be able to rely on you, our lives depend on it. Tell me if we can." Maybe he should screw this deal and just report Murdock anyway. It might be in his best interest to be sent home, in spite of what he had said about not having anything left but Nam. "It wouldn't be quitting, you know?"

Murdock looked up, as if he didn't understand, but his eyes betrayed him.

"It would not be giving up," Hannibal continued. "You've done your duty, and more. It doesn't have to be like... You could just... I could put in the request, maybe..."

"Maybe they won't peg me as a nutcase, you mean?" His voice was hard, biting.

"Not my choice of words, but... basically, yeah."

Murdock shook his head. "I might come back to that offer, Hannibal. Later. But as long as mine is the only chopper BA gets on these days... How can I go home? They're not gonna let him go. Am I supposed to leave him here so he can get shot to bit son the ground? I can't leave him to that."

Hannibal nodded. Flawless argumentation. "In that case, Captain: Tone. It. Down. Tell Billy to move out of the way, and don't aggrevate BA any more than you usually do."

"Will do, Hannibal."

"Good. Don't make me regret my decision to let you stay.

"I won't."

* * *

Face made good progress. With crutches he was able to walk short distances on his own, which was a relief, because he hated asking for help to get to the toilets. He only had to make sure he started soon enough, so he could make the necessary stop or two on his way.

He kept wondering how he could still be so weak.

"Hey there, soldier." Rosanna had this way of calling him "soldier", that gave the word a totally new meaning. "Anything I can do for you?"

Face smiled, lay the charm on thick. "Actually, yes, there is."

She sat down on the edge of his bed. "And just what might that be?"

Face ignored the soft chucklling coming from Chris. "You remember when I asked you about making a call?"

She frowned. Obviously she didn't.

"I need to find out about my unit."

"I'll find out about them for you, ok? But you... You shouldn't strain yourself. You're only just walking, barely."

"Hey, I can make it all the way to the facilities and back."

"With stops."

Face swallowed his irritation. It was almost as if she wanted to keep him cooped up in here. "Just... find out about my guys, would you?"

"I said I would." She wanted to say more, but a patient calling for assistance cut her off. "See you later." She squeezed his shoulder affectionately before she left.

* * *

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

Murdock sat up. He'd had a bad dream. They occurred increasingly.

In the dream he'd had, he was in the cage, sitting in the corner, leaning against the bamboo, talking to Hannibal, BA and Face. It was the night of their planned escape. Then the Vietcong Commander showed up, selecting Face.

In the dream Hannibal was crying out for Face, shouting at Charlie to leave his man alone. Face turned around then, telling Hannibal something with his eyes. Murdock didn't know what, he couldn't see Face's eyes anymore, they were black hollows, then Face turned towards him, staring with his hollows. "Make sure he shuts up," he said, his voice hollow as his eyes. "Make sure he shuts up, make sure he shuts up, make sure he shuts..."

In real life Murdock hadn't had to make sure. Hannibal had remained silent on his own. He had just sat there, shaking his head and looking... hollow.

Murdock shook his own head now and got up. He hated this dream. It wasn't always that one, but mostly. And all bad dreams he had were about Face. About Face being taken away and killed. In his dreams Murdock _saw_ how they killed him. Sometimes it was a bullet, but most times something not quite that clean and not quite that fast. In his dreams Murdock could hear Face's cries of pain.

And sometimes he dreamt of the day of the rescue. He dreamt of that big, strong soldier, he had forgotten the rank, or had never known it. – Who cares, anyway? – And that big, strong soldier carried Face in his arms. This image sometimes haunted him even when he was awake.

Face had been incredibly thin. Just harsh skin taut over bones. His hair had stuck to his head with what might have been sweat but was more likely something else. And there was blood. All over Face was blood. And one hand, reaching out blindly...

Murdock squeezed his eyes, rubbed his temples. He had to get rid of that memory.

It's not a memory, dummy, it's a _fantasy._ You made it all up. Out of grief, probably, or guilt. But more likely just because you're nuts. So cut it, buddy and face the facts: You're a loon.' Murdock sighed.

Oh, he missed Face so much. He had never realised how important he had been to him, not until they'd ended up behind bamboo-bars. That was the first time, he had deeply worried about him. He was sure Face would break first. Not because he was weak, but because he was complicated. He had so many angles and nooks where Charlie could drive his hooks in. Easy to break him.

Murdock had cared more about Face than himself. And when they had taken him, he had fallen into a deep hole. Deep, deep, deep blackness had swept over him and taken him away for the next months. He had not been fully aware most of the time, and when he was, each time he'd found the cage empty – meaning: Face wasn't in it. And no rumours approached him that one of the last two selected ones had returned. Face was gone. So he'd gone back to sleep again, inside himself.

And that's, where in general he still was. Only flying woke him. Flying, these dreams, and sex. Murdock had found out about the last one on a night-out shortly after their rescue. He had flown supplies and troups from Huong Hoa to Da Nang.

* * *

Murdock had set the bird down late in the afternoon, left his co-pilot with the responsibility for the bird and took off on his own. He was scheduled for return only tomorrow noon. So he had the night off.

He was still euphoric from the flight and roamed the markets and little shops. He checked his cash and was surprised to find quite a heap of it. It was enough to buy a few things, then a few drinks in a bar and maybe...

He hardly ever paid for sex. With his looks he had no problems finding volunteers. However, sometimes paying saved you some trouble. And in Nam, it was an altogether different story anyway. Hardly any girls did it for free over here. Even if they really liked the guys, they made them pay. They had families to support, and if not families, then they had pimps, and if not pimps, then they had dreams. Murdock didn't mind either way, he could afford them if he felt like it.

The shop was quite hidden. Murdock liked that. Too obvious always made him suspicious. He liked the hidden things in life. Subtlety was a character trait he wished he had and admired with anybody who had it. Like Face.

A lump formed in Murdock's throat. Face could have been so subtle. And yet he could have been so flashy. Face had mastered all nuances of addressing people. Whatever was the quickest way into their hearts. Whatever was needed to make them give him what he wanted. Face had been the one, with whom girls would have done it for free. In spite of that he had always paid them, or made up in some other way. He had been such a sweet. He had really liked the girls.

Murdock pushed the memories aside. He wanted to stay real, and remembering Face didn't help with that.

He quickly entered the shop. It sold all kinds of things. There was canned food in one corner and flowerpots in another. Newspapers right next to those, then lamps, a sewing machine and a stand of clothes. Murdock walked over to that.

"Can I help, soldier?" An old woman approached him, checked his uniform and corrected herself: "Captain?"

Murdock was impressed. Many Vietnamese refused to learn English, especially the older folks. And not many bothered to distinguish ranks correctly. It was then, that he decided to buy something from her.

"I need a jacket, Ma'am." He nodded at her, western-style. She stifled a giggle. "That one's real nice, I think," he went on, drawing just any jacket from the stand.

"No, no, Captain, you not want dis. Dis is better for Captain." The old woman snatched the jacket out of Murdock's hands and put it back into place. Instead she took a brown leather jacket. "Dis, Captain, yes." She nodded satisfied. Murdock smiled. She was so pleased with her choice, that he couldn't say no. He would have bought a pink jacket with baby-blue flowers printed on it. But the jacket was ok, indeed it was more than that, it was good. In fact, it was actually great! A tiger's head was sewn on the back and "Da Nang 1970" in a bow over it.

"It's 1971 already," he said with a smile.

The old lady shrugged it off. "You not tell your son," was her solution.

Murdock laughed and drew some bills from his pocket to pay.

With his new purchase on he dived into the next bar. One glass of whiskey preceded some glasses of coke, he wasn't much in the mood for alcohol. He finished off with a second whiskey, then he decided on a girl. She was willing, of course she was, he'd shown her money.

Trin her name was. She led him to her place and undressed right away. She helped him with his clothes. And Murdock, who'd started drifting once again, was back in reality. He felt cool, smooth skin when he laid his arms on her small body. He bowed down and tasted her delicate, small breasts. He breathed in deeply. She used some cheap perfume, but with the smoke from the bar, a hint of alcohol and her sweat it made a good mixture.

Trin ran her hands over his chest, playing with his hair, ran her hands deeper down, playing with _that_ hair, before she turned her exclusive attention to his penis. Murdock breathed in sharply. He let her lead the way. She pushed him onto her bed and straddled him. Not letting him in, not yet.

Murdock stretched out his hands for her, brushed her breasts. He groaned, when she let him slip inside her. She was a professional, no doubt, but that didn't make it less sweet. Didn't make it less good. He brushed her cheeks.

And then it was over. She stopped moving on top of him. She looked down, ran her fingers through his hair again and smiled. Murdock reached for his new jacket. He wanted a replay.

* * *

Murdock sighed with the happy memory. Sex was not available right now. Neither was flying. Although he did play with the thought of just jumping into a chopper and flying over to Da Nang. He had visited Trin several times since that night. Practically each time he was in Da Nang. And he started arranging opportunities.

* * *

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

Face's condition continued to improve, and faster than anyone expected, anyone but Face. He grew increasingly frustrated with how slowly things went. The toilet wasn't miles away anymore, and he didn't need to pause anymore on the way, but it still took him much longer to get there than he would have liked, and he still needed crutches. He had put on weight, but still was too thin, although there were no dietary restrictions anymore, and he ate like a garbage chute.

He could see that doctors and nurses were pleased with his progress. Rosanna was definitely harbouring romantic feelings for him, but she did her best to remain professional, which was a relief, because the last thing Face wanted at the moment was any kind of relationship. Way too demanding.

It was hard enough to stay on good terms with everyone as it was.

It was hard enough to remain friendly and charming and amiable, so nobody would bother to poke around in his recent past.

And to still have no idea how his team had fared in the camp did not help either. Rosanna had promised him to make inquiries, but so far had not showed up with any results.

Maybe... So far he had always backed down, because he had not felt strong enough for the fight, but maybe now he was?

Determinedly Face reached for his crutches. he would make his phone-call today, no matter what, he would find out today. The news might be bad, he knew that, they could have died. But they might have survived, and if they had, he needed to get back to them. Some things in life were that simple.

He knocked at the door of one of the offices in the back but didn't wait for an answer. He opened the door and leaned against the frame.

A Vietnamese girl looked at him sternly. "This is a restricted area, soldier, no patients allowed, so please, go back to..."

"I'm sorry, I am aware that this is restricted, but the payphones are broken, have been since the first time I checked, and..."

"Bomb blew out the phone-line", the girl explained impassively. "It will be fixed."

"I'm sure it will be, but in the meantime, I need to make a call, I really, really need to." He put on just the right mix of seriousness, need and charm.

The girl gave him a long, pensive look. "Who is it you want to call?" she finally asked.

"Registration. I have to know about my team." He did not have to fake the worry. "I have to know that they are alive... if. I won't tell anybody you made an exception for me, promise, but I just have to know."

Sometimes the truth worked better than any con. She pushed the phone a little closer to him. "Five minutes, tops. If you don't have an answer by then..."

"No worries. Thank you so much." Face quickly dialed, before she could change her mind, was referred a couple of times and finally, with one minute to spare, had someone on the line who would at least take down his request and forward it to the right department.

"Go ahead, Lieutenant," Sergeant Mayburn said.

Face took a deep breath. "First is Major Hannibal Smith... no wait, he's been promoted days before... it's Colonel Smith now." Face started with him not only because he was his CO, but also because he was some sort of a celebrity in the country. If he had died, it might have made the round.

"I heard he's been rescued from a death camp outside Huong Khe some weeks ago. But no guarantees."

Face breathed a sigh of relief. That was good news. "Then there's Sergeant BA Barracus, he's serving under Hannibal." He asked for him second, because, like Hannibal, he also had a bit of a reputation.

"Haven't heard anything about that one."

Damn, but Face would have to live with that. "And third there's Captain HM Murdock," he continued. "He's a flyboy, but sort of permanently assigned to Hannibal."

"Gotcha. Any more details that could help with the search?"

Face swallowed. "They all would have been at the same camp as Hannibal."

There was a short silence on the other end of the line. "Sorry, wasn't thinking there for a moment. I see to it that you get your reply as soon as possible."

"Thanks, much appreciated. Tell them to forward the information to the military-hospital in Hue."

"Will do, Lieutenant."

Face hung up, thanked the girl behind the desk once more for her kindness, and then made his way back to his ward.

Reliefed he dropped onto his bed.

"Faceman!" Chris Baker greeted him with a big grin.

Face had learned that it was almost always there, and he commended the guy for his attitude, because his looks really didn't warrant all that smiling. Since he had got rid of the bandages that had gone around half his head, he was rather hard to look at. "What you want, Bakerboy?" Face really wanted to just lie here for a bit and recover from his strenuous trip. But if a guy who looked like the main character of a horror-flic could be cheery, he could shelve a little fatigue.

"Fancy a game?" Chris held up a pack of cards.

Face nodded with a smile, no better distraction than poker. "Always."

* * *

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

Face sat outside the hospital on a small bench, enjoying the sun. He loved the sun. He was not supposed to leave the hospital grounds, and although technically the bench stood on a public street, nobody gave him a hard time about it. It was only three small steps from the entrance, anyway.

Mostly he had this spot to himself, not counting the throng of people walking in and out. Only sometimes one of the more mobile patients joined him here, and sometimes some of the personnell came out for a smoke.

And more often than he cared for, Rosanna joined him. Just sitting next to him, telling him little stories, or sharing a cup of coffee with him in silence. Actually, the coffee was nice.

It was one of those moments today. Rosanna came outside, handed him a mug and sat down next to him. A little too close for comfort, but he let it slide. Wouldn't do to offend her.

"You know, I would have gotten around to finding out about your comrades," she said after a minute, an accusatory undertone to her voice

He glanced at her sideways. "What?"

"A Lieutenant River called this morning."

Face shook his head, not understanding what she was getting at. "Lieutenant River?" The name didn't mean anything to him.

"Said he's with registration and that he has information to forward..."

"He did?" Face immediately jumped to attention. "And, what did he say?" He couldn't wait for the answer and at the same time didn't want to hear it. What if Mayburn had been wrong about Hannibal? And Murdock and BA, what if...

"I don't know, I didn't take the call, but it created quite some disturbance about staff following protocol, and..."

"Rosanna!" He interrupted impatiently, putting the cup down. "Who knows if you don't?"

"I don't know, as I said..."

"Rosanna, who?"

She looked taken aback. Like she had no idea why he would have reason to be impatient with her.

"I asked you to make that call, and not just once, I asked others, nobody let me, nobody helped me. You promised to make the call for me, but you didn't. And now, that I finally am fit enough to take care of the matter myself, still nobody bothers to help me! Don't you people think that this is important? You are treating soldiers here all day, every day. How can you still not realize how important our buddies are to us?"

"Faceman..."

"Don't you 'faceman' me, you don't deserve it!" The look of hurt on her face was _very_ satisfying.

"I'm sorry, I came to find you..."

"Hours later!" He interrupted. He heaved himself up. "You said it yourself, the call came in this morning, it's three in the afternoon now. What has kept you for those hours? You..." He turned and stalked away as fast as he could.

"Lieutenant." She came after him.

"Don't. Just don't." He made his way; not to the ward but to the offices in the back. It was not the same nice girl who had let him make the call - apparently the only decent person in this whole, damned, rotten place. If it had been her, things would have been a lot easier. Instead he found himself opposite a middle-aged man. But at least he wore uniform, so he should understand. Then again, he was well into his forties and still a sergeant. So there was a good chance he was grumpy by nature, he sure looked as if.

"Excuse me, I'm Lieutenant Peck, there has been a call for me today, from a Sergeant May... no, wait. It would have been Lieutenant Miller, I believe."

"This is not a public phone, Lieutenant", the Sergeant behind the desk informed him coldly.

"I am aware of that, Sergeant, and the moment the actual public phones are fixed, I won't trouble any of the staff anymore. But I need to find out about my unit."

The sergeant softened a little.

"Look, I don't want to talk to them on the phone or anything, all I want to know is whether my guys are alive. That's not too much to ask, is it?"

The sergeant fought a battle with his own foul mood, but in the end decency won out. "Lieutenant Miller, I believe it was, did not leave any information, not that I know of, but I can call him for you."

Face sighed. "Thank you."

The sergeant dialled, and when he had Miller on the phone, he surprised Face by handing him the receiver.

"Yes, hello? I was requesting the..."

"Lieutenant Peck, yes. You requested a report on the status of three men, Colonel Smith, Captain Murdock and Sergeant Barracus. Hang on a sec."

Face heard the faint rustling of paper.

"Here we are. Good news, Lieutenant. All three are alive andn ell, and already back on active duty. Hope that cheers up your day."

"You bet it does, Captain, oh my god, yes. Thank you," Face answered, his voice unstable and shaking with emotion. He put the phone down. They were alive. They were alive. They were alive. They were fine.

Only when he was out of the office and back to his ward, he realized that he hadn't asked _where_ they were. Never mind. He could always worry about that later.

* * *

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

_Hey, I appreciate your comments, even though I can't access them at the moment, site's not letting me. So I know there are comments, but can't reply. So I thank you this way._

* * *

Hannibal picked up the phone. "Colonel Smith here."

"Colonel, this is Lieutenant Miller with registration. I'm afraid, I have a bit of a problem."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "And, what's it got to do with me?"

"It's about Lieutenant Peck. I have him listed here as killed in action." Miller spoke slowly, hesitantly, as if he weren't sure which words to choose.

Hannibal stopped breathing, clenched his teeth for a second but forced himself to speak. "Well, that's true, Lieutenant. He was... killed in the camp near Huong Khe."

"I understand that you reported him dead?" Maebourne went on tentatively.

"That's correct." Hannibal was losing his patience. What was this about? Were they going to make trouble because he'd kept Face's dog-tags? Unlikely, but one could never know with the army.

"Did you actually see him die?" Miller sounded a bit surer of himself now.

"Captain, tell me what this is about, or I'll just hang up. Lieutenant Peck was my man. He was my friend, and I won't answer silly questions anymore. So, tell me what this is about!"

"I'm sorry, Colonel. It's just, I'm working through the killed-in-action-list. You know, to inform the relatives."

"He didn't have any relatives," Hannibal interrupted, wondering what irritated him more: That he had to point out the fact – or that there was nobody back in the states to mourn Face's death.

"Yeah, yeah. Thing is, as I went through the list, that name caught my eye." Miller hesitated for a moment. "And I remembered it. Only last week I had a request for your status. If you're still alive, you know. – It was made by Lieutenant Templeton Peck..."

Hannibal felt like his heart was on a trampoline all of a sudden. Hot and cold waves washed over him, a lump in his throat threatened to stop his breath. Cold sweat broke from his forehead, the receiver became slippery in his hand.

"Colonel, you still there?"

"Yes, Lieutenant." Hannibal cleared his throat. "Are you sure? I mean, I've got his dog-tags..." Hannibal couldn't speak on, due to lack of breath.

"Maybe it's another one, though with that name... I thought that would be more than just weird. – Could you come over to check if he's the one?"

Hannibal squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "Sure, of course. Where can I find him?"

"I forwarded the information to the military-hospital in Hue. I already checked, he's still there, not expected to be released for another couple of weeks."

"How... How's he doing? Do you know..."

"Sorry, I don't have that information. But I've talked to him myself last week. He sounded okay. Very pleased to hear you're alive and well."

Yes, Face would be, Hannibal thought. If it was Face. Don't let stupid hopes carry you away, it still could be all wrong somewhow. But... how many Templeton Pecks could there possibly be? "Thank you for calling, Lieutenant."

"No problem, Colonel, I'm here to help. I hope everything works out for you."

Hannibal thanked him again, then put the receiver back in its cradle. How could this be? He had felt it in his heart, that Face was gone. He had been so certain. How could he have given up on him so easily? Just because they had given him his dog-tags? Tags could be taken off a living man almost as easily as off a dead man. Why had that been enough to convince him?

Why had he not gone and checked?

Hannibal jumped to his feet, no use crying over spilled milk. He had to fly to Hue.

"Murdock! BA!"

He found them lurking in the sun, quarrelling once again. Life had normalized. And why not? It was almost six months since Face had been torn from their life. Face... If it was true... Hannibal decided not to tell his two men about the call from registration. The chances were slim that the information was bad, but if it was...

"BA, stop threatening Murdock. Murdock, stop annoying BA. We got a mission." Both men straightened up immediately.

"What kind of mission? Where're we going?" BA asked, happy they were going to do something.

"You'll see." Hannibal answered cryptically.

"Man, we're not gonna fly, are we?!"

"BA, you really should do something about that irrational fear of flying of yours," Murdock suggested sweetly.

"You better do something 'bout your trouble, man. Lots more to fix there, I say," BA grumbled back.

"Quit it. Murdock, get the chopper ready. BA, not one word from you. You're coming with us. I need you on this mission."

"What supplies?" Murdock asked.

"Nothing special. It's... it's just a clearing mission." And that was true.

* * *

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

Face started to hate the crutches. Unfortunately he still needed them. He ignored Rosanna as best as he could. She was unhappy about that, but he couldn't care less, it was her own fault.

He made himself comfortable in the day room. A cup of tea in front of him, he dealt the cards. He was lucky, there were always new patients to play with him. Another month or two and he could retire a rich man, Face thought.

"Lieutenant Peck?" Dr. Wissman entered the room and interrupted the game before it really started.

"Doc, wanna join in? Got paid too much last month?"

Wissman smiled. "No, Lieutenant, not this month. Next month you may rob me again. – There's a visitor for you."

Visitor? Face turned in his chair. Who could that be? The team maybe? "He's waiting outside," Wissman advised.

Face left the table, stumbling outside with his hated crutches. And he recognised him right away. Hannibal stood in the doorway, looking outside. His back was stiff.

"Hannibal?"

Hannibal almost slumped at the sound of the voice. It was him. It was Face. My... He slowly turned around. What he saw frightened him. In his memory Face was a young man, strong and vital. What he saw, was a young man, yes, but battered. He walked on crutches. He was pale with dark rings around eyes that looked bigger and darker, and older, most of all, than the last time he'd looked into them.

"Face... My god, it _is_ you."

"Who else would I be?" Face looked confused.

"Man, it's good to see you."

"Then why didn't you show up earlier?" Face asked. He'd started thinking about that ever since he'd learned they were alive. He had even tried to contact them, but the three times he'd managed to get to a phone, he didn't get connected.

"We thought you were dead."

Understanding stole into Face's eyes, then defiance. "Dead, eh? Didn't you check?"

"I..." Hannibal reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver chain with Face's dog-tags. "They gave me this. I thought I didn't have to check."

"My dog-tags!" Face stared at them, then went on in a somewhat dreamy voice: "I've been wondering what they were doing with them." He reached to take them. But Hannibal was faster. He put the chain around Face's neck, like he was awarding him with a medal.

"You've been gone so long. And then they gave me your tags. – What would you have thought?" Hannibal tried to explain himself.

"I would have checked. – Where are BA and Murdock?"

"In town. I wanted to see first, if it's really you. I didn't want to disappoint them, if..."

"How are they?"

"Fine, fine. Getting better. We've been all... we've been missing you. Murdock, though, he's got a real problem."

"He freaked at last?"

Hannibal hid his surprise. How did Face know? "Not actually freaked."

"But he's gone nuts. Bet BA's happy as never." Face nodded to himself. "The camp didn't help to stabilise him, I guess. – Were you... What did they do to you? Did they leave you alone?" Hannibal heard terror in the voice. Well hidden, but not well enough.

"What did they do to _you_? That's more important. Where did they take you? What happened in all the time?" But Hannibal was mistaken, when he thought, Face would talk.

"I don't know. How long's it been?"

"Four months and six days. Now you answer my questions."

Face limped over to a chair and sat down. "What were those questions again?" he asked innocently.

Hannibal just looked at him. He knew Face had an extraordinarily good mind. He had not forgotten. – Or had he? Had Charlie done damage to his memory? "Forget it. You're alive and well. – Getting well, that's all that counts, really. When will you be released?"

Face shrugged. He wasn't too crazy about leaving the hospital anyway. Here nobody hurt him. Here he was safe. Here he was taken care of. Here he didn't risk another death camp. "So, you believed I was dead. How did you find out I wasn't?" He changed the subject.

"A Lieutenant Miller called. He found your name on the killed-in-action-list, and then he remembered your request concerning us. He called me."

"When?"

"This morning."

"Wow, you were quick." Face fell silent again.

He appeared to be a different person to Hannibal. Not counting the physical changes, the Face he had known was a communicative boy, always with his mouth open. He was full of ideas and his eyes sparkled. This boy in front of him wasn't a boy anymore. This was a man, silent and pensive and guarded.

Face studied the pattern on the floor. Killed in action. Bitter irony. For once, he hadn't been killed – obviously. And second: If he had been killed, it would hardly have been in action. Killed in passiveness, rather. A bitterness crept into his features he didn't notice.

But Hannibal noticed. And he remembered it well.

* * *

To Be Continued in "Eventually Hell - Kid"


	21. Chapter 21

_Last Chapter of this part of the story. Hope you like it._

* * *

"What a mission!" Murdock revelled.

For what reason ever, Hannibal had given them a few hours off. So he and BA had decided to eat out. They had just finished, and Murdock was rubbing his belly. BA grunted what might have been an agreement. "Wonder, what this mission's about. It can't be just hopping into a chopper and spending a few nice hours in Hue." Murdock looked at BA for further agreement. BA grunted something. Murdock took it as yes. "I mean, not that it would be completely unlike Hannibal. But... till now we've been having a nice flight," BA grunted, this time clearly in protest "We _have been having_ a nice flight," Murdock insisted. "Then Hannibal sent us away and we've been eating way too much. – Is that a mission?" BA shook his head. "I mean, if Hannibal had a girl here – which might be so – he wouldn't have forced you onto the chopper. He wouldn't even have forced me to fly him over here."

"As if it needed force to make you fly anywhere," BA said, trying his fiercest look on Murdock.

Murdock, unimpressed by it, smiled broadly and fluttered his eyelashes. There was a point for BA.

"What ever, it's time to meet him," BA reminded, pointing at his watch.

"You mean, I have to _move_?" Murdock looked down at himself doubtfully. "I _can't_ move!"

"You must, now get started." BA shoved back his chair and looked threateningly down at Murdock.

Murdock sighed. He knew BA wasn't reacting as conciliatory to his antics as most of the other guys. So he got up and followed BA along.

Hannibal was already there, waiting. He looked different somehow. Much more alive than he had in months. Something very, very good must have happened. He came almost running toward them with that gleam in his eyes that he hadn't had since... since before they got caught.

"Colonel?" Murdock asked.

"I got great news. Oh, so great news!"

BA drew a face, looking at Murdock, and Murdock just looked. To him Hannibal appeared like a five-year-old on Christmas morning.

"Come on. – You may be a little shocked in the beginning, God knows I was, but it's still good news. It's fantastic! – Almost there." Hannibal led them around a corner, and there he stopped, in front of the military-hospital of Hue.

"What?" BA asked.

"A hospital is our good news? Hannibal, what we gonna do here?" Murdock asked. There was a note of uneasiness in his voice.

"We gonna visit a friend," Hannibal answered, trying desperately to sound casual, but failing all along the line. He simply beamed and led the way. Once inside he saw Face nowhere. – Had he gone nuts now himself and only made Face up? No, there he was. Face had just gone back to bed. Hannibal walked, actually almost jumped, over to him.

"Hey, Face, missed me?" he asked.

BA and Murdock stopped dead. Face. BA came back to life first. "Faceman! That really you?" He came to embrace his long lost friend. "Man, I can't believe it! How you doin', little buddy? Man it's good ta see ya!" He hugged him again, and tight. He didn't notice the tension in Face, as he embraced him. Only when he let go again, he saw a quick tense expression. But it was gone so quickly, he doubted his perception and put it aside.

Now Murdock woke from his catatonics. "Hi, Face," he just said.

Hannibal looked in disbelief. Murdock had suffered so much from Face's absence, he'd expected some Indian joy-dance at least. But nothing. Just a weak "hi, Face". What was wrong there?

* * *

What Hannibal didn't know: Murdock had problems seeing Face, the real one. His mind was playing tricks on him. All he saw was Face, starved and covered in blood all over. And it wasn't just blood, he saw, now that his brain gave him the chance to watch the picture engraved in his mind a bit longer. There were bruises, hundreds of them. Poor Faceman, what did they do?

"Hey, Murdock."

Murdock blinked. And now Face was finally there. He looked a lot better than two months ago. – Or just two seconds ago, as far as Murdock was concerned. "Jesus, Faceman, how... You gettin' any better?" He had to be, he looked better at any rate.

"Docs say so." Face studied him with a piercing look, that almost made Murock squirm. "And you?"

"Me?" Murdock played innocent. "Why would I need to get any better, I'm fine."

* * *

To Be Continued in "Eventually Hell - Kid"


End file.
